


Sharpe's Drums

by BlueNeutrino



Series: Sharpe's Fanfic [18]
Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Heartbeats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28316595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: "Kill or cure," Father Curtis had said. "It's very hard on the heart."Even after Sharpe is healed, those words don't leave Harper.
Series: Sharpe's Fanfic [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034673
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Sharpe's Drums

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkSiren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSiren/gifts).



> A fic I wrote for my friend InkSiren after getting her into the Sharpe series, for which she has repaid me with several fics of her own. 
> 
> This is set in the TV verse, although I tend to pick and choose the aspects from each canon that I most prefer.

It isn’t the done thing for a sergeant to share his superior officer’s tent, but when said superior officer is recovering from a recent near-fatal wound, Sergeant Patrick Harper doesn’t care.

Major Sharpe, for his part, seems grateful for the Irishman’s presence. The pot of tea Harper had brewed at supper gives way to a shared flask of brandy before each of them settle down on their own bedrolls, and then Sharpe snuffs out the lantern between them plunging the tent into darkness.

All that remains is the barest hint of moonlight filtering through the canvas and the faint sounds of insect chatter and winds rolling through the Spanish hills. Softer still is the sound of Sharpe’s breathing, steady yet straining more than usual, feeling the toll of an injury that has yet to fully relinquish its hold.

Harper listens, and thinks, and decides he can no longer keep it to himself.

“You know, Richard,” he says quietly to the darkness, “when it looked like you might not make it for a time, there was something that occured to me.”

Across the tent, there’s the soft rustling of blankets as Sharpe turns to face him, though there’s little to be seen beyond silhouette in the dark. “Aye?” His reply is equally quiet. “What was that?”

“Just something Father Curtis said.” Harper stares into the mass of shadow across from him and almost imagines that his friend isn’t really there, body left behind in Villafranca to leave Patrick speaking only to a ghost. “That if we tried to save you, we might stop your heart. Four years I’ve known you now, fought at your side in countless battles, but I never realised until now that I’ve never heard your heartbeat.”

A pause. “Is that you asking to hear it?”

It’s hard to read his tone, with that typical Yorkshireman’s gruffness that blurs affection and reproach. “No, sir,” Patrick says. “Just an observation.”

“I know you better than that, Pat.” Another pause. Harper rolls onto his back again to stare up at the canopy, preparing to resign himself to Sharpe’s tiredness and the end of the conversation, then he hears: “Get over here, then. If you want to listen.”

Harper’s head picks up. He gazes once more in Sharpe’s direction and thinks shapes are forming more clearly now, his eyes growing used to the dark. “Richard?”

“Did you think I’d say no?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Sharpe doesn’t reply, but once more there’s a rustle of blankets and Harper sees him shift his body to lie flatter, head propped on the pack he’s using as a pillow. 

The distance isn’t far. Harper barely has to crawl before finding himself at Sharpe’s side, close enough already to feel the warmth radiating from a body not long ago he’d feared would turn ice cold. Still Sharpe says nothing, but the invitation is clear as Patrick carefully lowers himself to rest an ear over Richard’s heart.

Sharpe sleeps in shirtsleeves but always with an open collar, and there’s a brief moment of welcome surprise as Patrick feels the direct heat of his skin. Then he hears it: the powerful thumping of a heart as steady, strong and relentless as the man it belongs to.

They lie that way for some moments. At first Richard seems unsure what to do with his hands before settling one comfortably on Patrick’s lower back, while Patrick braces his own arm on the floor to keep from placing all of his weight on Richard’s chest. Then Sharpe speaks again.

“Well? How does it sound?”

Patrick considers. “Like those bloody French drums, so it does.”

He feels the laughter swell in Richard’s chest before he hears it; a deep, powerful breath that tumbles out of him with genuine amusement. “It had better not. If that’s what you’re hearing you got something wrong when you saved me.”

“It’ll go on a lot longer than those French drums, if I have anything to say about it.”

As the scars on Sharpe’s body and the sword by his side will attest, Harper has plenty to say. “Aye, Pat,” Richard murmurs. “I believe you.” 

They will go back to their own beds and sleep. Just not yet.


End file.
